


For His Sake

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: 2Fords [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 2fords - Freeform, ? it feels like grooming, Amnesiac Stan Pines, Angst, Brain Damage, Dark!Ford, Gaslighting, Grooming, Incest, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Murder, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sibling Incest, Spme guy dies but it's okay!, Stancest - Freeform, Teen!Stan - Freeform, Twincest, Unbetad i am my own beta, Unhealthy Relationships, amnesia!stan, because if jimmy shows up in one of my fics he is after that S(tan), caryn romanoff pines makes a brief cameo because i love her, i mean someone is going to die, oh yeah there's some hinted jim/stan, original characters and biker gangs! :D, road trips to new york city are frought with danger--like jersey, rough almost sex, teen!ford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Everyone is settling, except for Ford. So, he takes Stanley to New York City for some hunting.orEverything is goin' good so Ford decides to heck it up.





	1. For Stanford (Off With an Aborted Bang)

Caryn insists on meeting Stanford’s benefactor in person. Stanley mocks Ford for being leary of their shared-but-not-shared mother, but she hounds Stanley and threatens to reject the hard-won funds until Ford concedes. 

Ford can’t fault her weariness, not with Stanford still hospitalized and struggling toward consciousness. And, while no one has blamed Stanley’s indiscretions for his brother’s condition, Ford knows from Stanley’s own disjointed confessions and Caryn's fussing, that “free money” is what caused the whole mess. (A distant part of Ford feels something unpleasant, that his mother recognizes so easily the marks of the mafia.)

“You!” Caryn says when she sees Ford again. “The mentor!”

“Ah,” Ford feels ungrounded under his mother’s incredulous glare. “Yes. My apologies,” Ford says, unsure what he’s apologizing for, but sure that it is the right thing to say. It’s a painfully awkward interaction, Caryn oscillating between worried mother and curiously flirtatious. (“Such mysterious hands; whole extra finger. I got good at reading six fingers. You want a readin’? Maybe in private?”) After Caryn has left with Ford’s word that he’ll look after Stanford and after Stanley has laughed himself nearly sick over Ford’s palpable discomfort, Stanley finally agrees to keep the two of them separated.

Still, Caryn trusts Ford enough that she lets Stanford visit him daily, with Stanley's assistance. (Ford knows that of all the denizens of Glass Shards Beach, that he is the only one fully equipped to help the boy.)

Ford plans for Stanford's arrival: he briefs Stan, he removes anything in the apartment that could cause accidents (there isn't much, the place is already Stan-proofed). What Ford doesn't prepare for, is just how smitten Stan is with the young man.

(“Stanford,” Stan breathes before Ford can introduce them. Stanford is leaning heavily on Stanley, but he weakly smiles.

“Hello,” he says. Stan surprises them all when he wraps Stanford into a crushing hug that has Stanley squawking like a worried hen, trying to pry some space between the bewildered young Stanford and the old man.

“You're here,” Stan holds Stanford's face in his hands like it's something precious and breakable. “You're really...God, Sixer. I thought I'd lost you.”

It's tender and Ford feels like a voyeur watching Stanford squirm under the frustration of his own memory and the discomfort of this strange, old man looking at him like he's in love.

It makes Ford want to break something with his teeth.)

Ford wouldn't mind, he assumes this Stanford has earned some doting, but Stan (Ford's Stan, his  _ brother _ ) seems pleasantly grounded around the addled young man. He seems brighter and sharper; he laughs loudly and often. And Ford should be grateful that Stan is  _ happy _ to take on the bulk of the responsibility in rehabilitating Stanford's damaged brain, but it's Stan's brain that frustrates Ford. Because, since meeting Stanford, Stan has been improving with alarming rapidity.

“I'm not an idiot!” Stanford says slowly, exhausted and slurring his words after only a half hour of equations.

“No one said you were, Stanford,” Stan rumbles at the furious young man glaring at the sheet of paper on the table.

“I learned this when I was five!” Stanford whines. 

“Wow,” Stan says, honestly impressed and eager to show it. “You're a hell of a lot smarter’n I am.”

“Yer doin’ great,” Stanley agrees. “This shit still don't make any sense t’ me.”

“It's cause you never studied a book without skin in your life,” the older Stan snarks. Stanley begins to protest, overacting his outrage as Stanford’s scowl slowly cracks into a blushing grin. 

 

Later that night, Ford bites into his brother's sagging skin with a viciousness that makes Stan push at Ford's face until he lets go.

“Jesus, Ford, you tryin’ to eat me?” Stan jokes, one hand still braced against Ford's chin and forehead to hold him back. 

“Do you want me to?” Ford licks his lips, swollen from nipping and sucking Stan’s skin. 

“Eat my ass, maybe,” Stan says as his hand slides through Ford's hair to cradle the back of his head. “Really, you okay?” 

“I'm fine,” Ford lies. He carefully pushes forward; Stan lets him get close enough to kiss. “I just...I just love you.” Ford says against Stan's lips. He has to close his eyes this close to Stan, but he can feel his brother melt for him. 

“Jesus, you sap,” Stan says and pulls Ford in for a kiss that Ford escalates from tender to burning.

Ford can’t help but use teeth, and Stan seems to understand that, grunting and murmuring quietly: “Easy, easy.” Ford grits his teeth, lets them rest against Stan’s neck as he breathes hotly through his nose, feeling too sharp and electric. He almost wishes Stan had said yes. He wants to tear into Stan and get into the basest meat of him and lay him bare until he is nothing. (Until he is no longer Ford’s problem and perhaps that is what feels like stinging teeth in his chest. That after everything Stan has done, and everything  _ Ford _ has done for  _ Stan _ , that there is still a hard kernel of resentment in Ford’s heart that refuses to melt.) Another part, that Ford lets consume him in the darkness surrounding him and Stan, wants to devour Stan until there is nothing left for the world to hurt; until Stan Pines is safe within him and untouchable. (He should have consumed his brother in the womb.)

“Are you gonna be like this if we fuck?” Stan asks, a breathless edge to his voice, though he isn’t panting. “‘Cause I promised I’d take the boys to the beach and I can’t do that if I can’t walk.” 

It isn’t the right thing to say, and maybe Stan knows that, because he starts rubbing up and down Ford’s sweating back, saying something soft and soothing. Or, perhaps it’s that Ford is trembling from the exertion of holding his hands open when they want to ball into claws and fists, of holding his breath when he wants to scream. 

As Ford shakes, uncertain which part of his mind is misfiring to make him so volatile, Stan has rolled them so that Ford is no longer poised over him like a threat; they are both on their sides on the worn mattress on the floor. Stan keeps trying to gentle him, voice rumbling comfortingly and Ford hates it, hates this feeling of being coddled when he isn’t sure what he’s feeling at all. 

Stan takes off Ford’s glasses and sets them aside to carefully wipe at Ford’s face. 

“Stop it,” he hisses at Stan, his voice is strained and burns in his throat. Stan hesitates, but he leans into Ford instead, rough lips pressing into Ford’s forehead.

“It’s okay,” Stan says softly. “It’s okay to cry.” (It’s not, Ford thinks. Not when he doesn’t know why; not when he feels hollowed out and wounded, but has his brother in his arms.) Ford shoves at his brother, but Stan just tries to hug him tighter. It’s too much, this gentle understanding of something Ford can’t even comprehend. Ford lashes out, knee-jerking up to hit Stan in the gut. As Stan gags out air, Ford shoves at him again until he can scramble away and spring to stand. He feels too hot and too cold, stripped bare of clothing, covered in nothing but sweat. (Stan is naked, too. He had planned on ravaging his brother and marking him up until there was no doubt who he belonged to.) He feels foolish and vulnerable, overwhelmed as he stares at Stan panting in the bed with his eyes screwed shut in pain and confusion.

“Wh--” Stan tries, but he’s interrupted by a sudden, spasmodic inhalation. Ford’s muscles twitch and he bolts, ripping open the bedroom door and darting into the bathroom, leaving the lights out so that he is sitting in total darkness.

He sits like that, in the far corner of the shower, until he is chilled by the cold tile and his skin is numb. Then, he continues to sit and wait. As times goes by and his breathing returns to something more regular and his blood is no longer noticeably loud in his ears, he feels even more foolish; he’s angry again at himself for being irrational and at Stan for being so gentle. He wishes they had fought instead (or fucked). Something to make the sudden exhaustion in his limbs satisfying instead of humiliating. 

“Hey, Ford?” There is a knock at the bathroom door that makes Ford start, nerves firing back as if they’d never cooled. “I know you’re havin’ a breakdown or somethin’, but I’ve gotta piss and I don’t feel like cleaning the dishes in the sink.” Ford’s temper flares. (Of course, Stan is too lazy to give Ford his peace.) “Ford? I know I shouldn’t’ve done that.” Stan tries again. “I don’t know what goes on in that big ol’ brain o’ yours. I’m sorry.” The last part, the apology, is said so quietly Ford almost doesn’t hear it. It softens him a bit, enough that he pulls his clammy skin from the tile and stands stiffly. 

When he opens the door, he notes that Stan has dressed himself in his night shirt and boxers. (Ford is still naked.)

“Hey--” Stan starts, but Ford shoves past him, unable to face his brother at the moment. He can see the first thin fingers of dawn casting pale light in the apartment. He gets dressed quickly and leaves, ignoring Stan calling after him. 

 

Stanford is well enough at this point that Ford doesn’t feel guilty for pulling Stanley aside and asking him to go to New York. (And as loathe as he is to leave Stan alone with this young Stanford that he is so smitten with, Ford doesn’t want to be around his brother at the moment, either. He feels unstable.) 

“Now?” 

“Why not?” Ford asks. “Unless you don’t care? I was under the impression that you wanted to make sure this never happened again, but I could have been wrong.”

“No! No,” Stanley shakes his head and squares his jaw. “No, you’re right. For Stanford.”

“For Stanford,” Ford easily agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pending title. I also like: "Ford and Stanley's Most Heinous Adventure"


	2. The Motel Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford has a gift for Stanley and Stanley has second thoughts.

“When we find them, what will you do?” Ford asks Stanley as he rifles through his voluminous pockets. 

“Wha'd'ya mean?” Stanley asks, voice slightly muffled as he peaks through the threadbare curtain of the single, filthy window. 

“When we find the men who tried to kill you,” Ford says patiently. “I'm sure you thought about it.”

“Oh,” Ford hears the minute whisper of the curtains and the creak of the thin flooring as Stanley shifts. “I mean. We're gonna beat the shit outta ‘em. Right?”

“If you'd like,” Ford's fingers finally curl around the object he's looking for. He smiles. “I actually have a gift for you.”

“For me?” Ford tracks the creak of the floor until he can feel Stanley standing near him. “Aw, shucks, you shouldn't have!”

“Well,” Ford turns and pulls his curled fist from his pocket. Stanley watches him, smirking and curious. It's heart-wrenchingly charming and Ford's hands ache to touch the dusting of stubble that wars with fading acne for dominance of Stanley's face. “It's not as gaudy as I'm sure you'd like, but it is imminently more practical.” Stanley's smile dims into perplexity when Ford finally opens his hand.

“What,” Stanley asks, “is that?”

“I'm not sure how familiar you are with brass knuckles--”

“Plenty,” Stanley snorts. “Gotten real familiar.”

“Then you should know what these are.”

“...well, they ain't brass.”

Ford laughs. 

“No, not quite. They're an alloy, similar to the one in my head.” Ford taps his knuckles against his head to demonstrate. “More expensive than brass, I assure you. Put it on.” Ford holds the item out to Stanley, who lifts a hand but doesn't pick it up.

“How?” he asks. Ford grins and carefully grabs Stanley’s hand by the wrist. 

“I'll help you.” Ford turns Stanley's hand over and maneuvers the piece until it slides into place.

The piece must look strange to Stanley. It is, in its simplest form, two bands of metal and rubber, one ring that circles snuggly around Stanley’s thumb and a larger, more oblong piece through which all of Stanley’s remaining fingers fit. The interior rubber that rests against Stanley’s skin is a drab military gray-green while the outermost side of the weapon is shiny metal.

“It's not heavy,” Stanley says as he makes a fist. “This ain't gonna do shit.”

“It's harder than steel,” Ford says, tapping the metal band. When he does, tiny runes and inscriptions crack the metal like glowing, blue veins and spark with electricity. Stanley yelps and jumps backward, hand stretched out in front of him, as if he's trying to get away.

“Holy shit, get it off!” 

“Relax,” Ford laughs delightedly as the knuckles do exactly as he designed. 

“Its gonna fry me, get it off!” Stanley shakes his hand, but the ring around his thumb keeps the knuckles secure. 

“Oh, they're perfect! Stanley, relax, relax! They're responding to your heart rate!” Stanley looks at him, eyes wide and dilated, despite the bright, blue light.

“The hell did you do, Sixer?”

“I made you a gift! Weaponized knuckles against demons, cryptids, humans!” Ford's heart thumps against his ribs and his face splits into a wider grin. “They remain dormant unless you become agitated. Relax and breath normally.”

“ _ You _ say that with some future, sci-fi brass knuckles tryin’ t'cook yer hand!” Stanley grabs the faintly glowing knuckles and tries to pry it off. The light dances harmlessly over his fingers. “It's stuck!”

“It's not stuck,” Ford shakes his head, but he doesn't stop grinning. “It's secured. You need to relax.”

“Shut up!” Stanley snarls at him. “Stop sayin’ that!” The knuckles flash brighter and electricity crackles in small arcs through the air and around Stanley’s clawing hand. Ford closes the distance between them and grabs both of Stanley's wrists. Lightning cracks again, making the hairs along Ford's arm stand on end. (Ford’s heart jumps; his hands spasm for a nervous beat.)

“Breathe,” Ford says softly. “I'd never put you in danger, Stanley. Don't you trust me?”

“No,” Stanley snaps bluntly. Ford frowns. 

“Well, you should. Now breathe, or they won't come off.” Stanley glares at him but starts to breathe harshly through his nose. The electricity and light dims and fades until the knuckles are dark and drab, once again. “Perfect, very good,” Ford praises. He brings one hand to Stanley’s balled fist, uncurling his fingers until Ford can slide the knuckles off. 

“The fuck,” Stanley mutters, tugging his hand back to himself, but Ford doesn't let go. Not yet.

“We'll wrap your wrist and fingers, of course,” Ford says as he examines Stanley's hand. It's slightly reddened in blunt streaks by Stanley's mad scrabbling, but there are no burns from the electricity or the runes. “Beside the added stability, the extra layer between you and whatever body fluids we encounter can only be beneficial.”

“Fluid?” Stanley tries to tug his hand free again.

“Hm.” Ford is done his examination, so he kisses Stanley's pink knuckles and lets him go. “Blood, saliva.”

“Oh,” Stanley's face goes strangely blank as he rubs at his hand. “Yeah.”

“I think you'll like it,” Ford continues. “You're passable at hand-to-hand combat, and you've used similar weapons in the past. Right?”

“Not like that,” Stanley eyes the dormant knuckles suspiciously. “That's some freaky sci-fi bullshit. Wait-- _ passable _ ?” Stanley glares at Ford. “I'm damn good with my fists!” 

“Against any common thug, sure,” Ford assures the young man. Stanley's frown deepens, creasing the corners of his mouth and between his brows. “Which should be all we encounter.”

“I could kick yer ass!” Stanley's expression wrinkles his face further, making him look both much older and immature as he pouts.

“Hardly,” Ford scoffs. “I have much more experience and superior physical training.” 

“Yer old,” Stanley accuses. “I've kicked yer ass before!”

“You've taken me by surprise,” Ford admits begrudgingly. 

“Whooped ya good,” Stanley smirks. “Almost broke yer nose.”

“Don't forget who landed on top,” Ford turns his back to Stanley, glaring at the weapon in his hand. (Stanley was supposed to like the gift, not argue with Ford. Why was he always fighting Ford?)

“Yeah, yeah,” Stanley sounds dismissive. “Ya cheated.”

“Cheated?” Ford shoots a dangerous look over his shoulders. Stanley has an arrogant lean to his entire body, his hands are shoved into his jeans pockets and his head is cocked just slightly to the side. It's infuriating. “You can't cheat in combat, Stanley. You can only outsmart your opponent.”

“Pfft,” Stanley scoffs. “Spoken like a real con.”

“You would know,” Ford grumbles. Stanley doesn't have the shame to look embarrassed; he only shrugs. “Regardless, you'll be more effective with the knuckles I've designed for you.”

“I ain't usin’ those freaky things.” 

“Don't be an idiot,” Ford dismisses Stanley’s stubborn protests and shoves the knuckles into his jacket pocket to be tweaked later. “They work perfectly. Beside,” Ford rummages through his pocket until he finds an old, paper map. He pulls it out and unfolds it. “Killing with blunt force can be tedious and exhausting. The electricity with speed the process.” Ford traces his finger over the map, considering. “Unless you want to take your time?” Ford looks over his shoulder at Stanley. His face is pinched and pale.

“I don't...they deserve it, right?” Stanley's arrogant lean has sagged; his shoulders are around his ears. “I mean, what they did.”

“...Stanley, are you having second thoughts?” 

“No!”

“Stanley,” Ford turns to face the young man, eyes dragging over Stanley’s nervous posture. “You've been involved with violent altercations before.”

“I mean, I got no problem fuckin’ the guys up.”

“Is it the killing?” Ford asks. Stanley crosses his arms, almost hugging himself. He looks young, younger than the scrappy adult he is. (He looks the way Ford found him a year ago, a lonely child without his brother.) 

“No!” Stanley glares at Ford, his eyes wide and bright. 

“Well, good.” Ford doesn't believe him. “These are terrible men, Stanley. They don't deserve to do this again.” 

“I know that!” 

“Then you'll take care of them?” Stanley looks away from him, nodding at the wall. “Good.” Ford closes the small distance between the two of them; Stanley takes a reflexive step back before Ford grabs his shoulders to still him. “You're doing a very brave thing,” he says. Stanley doesn't look at him, just shrugs aggressively. (As if he's trying to dislodge Ford's hands.) “You're taking care of your brother.” Stanley's voice is quiet and strained when he finally says: 

“I guess.”

“You are,” Ford pulls Stanley into a hug the young man doesn't return or relax into. “You're a good brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in new york city there is an elite squad known as the "stanford vengance unit"


	3. Stanley Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley and Ford have a nice chat about the sights and sounds of New York City.

Stanley doesn't know where to start. Ford isn't surprised that this young version of his brother has such a long list of potential enemies. It's still impressive, though, that Stanley was able to cross so many violent men.

(“Not my fault,” Stanley repeats, like a mantra.

“Few things seem to be,” Ford answers.)

Ford suggests examining the police report. Stanley tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he will not set foot near any police precinct, “unless I'm in cuffs, a body bag, or both.” Ford finds that all very dramatic. 

Stanley, instead, says that he “knows a guy.”

 

The motel they’ve rented for a few nights is still in New Jersey. Stanley insists that it’s cheaper and Ford respects the distance it puts between them and whatever body count they accrue in New York City. (Ford assumes it will be high enough to warrant police attention, given Stanley’s list.)

It means they have to drive through Staten Island, though, before they get to Brooklyn. (And possibly beyond, Stanley is cagey about the vital details of the men he's crossed.)

The driving is tedious with traffic, though Stanley seems to perk up when the road stretches up and reaches over the flat, blue-gray water of Gravesend Bay.

“Look at that! It’s the Golden Gate Bridge!” Stanley grins at Ford, gesturing at the impressive structure of steel and thick cables.

“That’s the Verrazzano-Narrows bridge,” Ford corrects. Stanley scoffs at him and rolls his eyes.

“That sounds like a mouthful. I like mine better.”

“Your’s is erroneous. And in California.”

“What? No, it’s not! It’s right there!” Stanley takes a hand off the steering wheel to gesture at the bridge, flapping it wildly in Ford's face until he beats it away.

“Are you being purposefully obtuse? I already told you, that is the Verrazzano-Narrows bridge! Currently, as of--what year is it? Still the 60s?”

“Mostly.”

“Well, that is the longest suspension bridge in the world!”

“Sounds fancy,” Stanley says, smirking at Ford.

“It’s currently an architectural wonder,” Ford sniffs. 

“It’s a wonder it’s got such a dumb name,” Stanley says back. 

“It's named after the first explorer recorded to have navigated the Narrows! Of course, the native population had a far superior understanding of the environment, but, unfortunately, either never wrote anything down or it's been lost.”

“Named after some guy that slapped his name on it and called it his, gotcha,” Stanley's thumbs hook around the steering wheel and his fingers splay up and out as he shrugs. “Alright. I'm gonna call it the Stanley Bridge.”

“You can't do that!” Ford exclaims. “ _ Why _ would you do that?”

“Just gotta sell it t’ people,” Stanley is grinning from ear to ear, the look he used to get when he had an idea he knew would get him into trouble (but he knew Ford would be there with him, anyway). “Lots o’ suckers around here! They don't know shit, let alone that this ain't the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“It's one of the most famous bridges in America, Stanley.”

“Ain't everyone as smart as ya, ya big nerd,” Stanley says. “And those dumb suckers can make us a mint!”

“I'm sure,” Ford drawls. “Do you want to fleece people before or after we take care of your first problem?”

“My first--oh. Huh,” Stanley deflates, shoulders collapsing around his ears. “Yeah, guess we oughta lie low.”

“Or,” Ford taps his chin thoughtfully. “Your pageantry could be useful. I'm sure the men you've crossed would be inclined to finish the job they started on your brother.”

“Shut up,” Stanley snaps at him. “Don’t talk about Ford that way.”

“I'm not talking about your brother,” Ford replies evenly. “I'm talking about the men that hurt him. That want to hurt  _ you. _ ”

“Yeah, well,” Stanley scowls at the road. “Leave Ford outta this. He's got nothin’ to do with it.”

“I think we both know that's not true, Stanley,” Ford says. Stanley growls something under his breath. 

“Whatever. Welcome to fuckin’ New York.”

 

“What ya should know about Snakes,” Stanley says as they stop-start-stop in the New York city traffic. “He’s, well. He’s kinda an asshole.”

“Snakes?”

“Yeah, guy I was talking about?” 

“Ah, yes. Your contact.”

“Weeell,” Stanley drawls out, nervous grin ticking the corners of his mouth. 

“Well?”

“He's cool; he's straight, but, uh. See last time I saw ‘im I kinda. Well. Okay, it went like this--”

“Focus,” Ford snaps as Stanley gears up for a ramble.

“Shut up an’ let me talk! So,” Stanley clears his throat. “Okay, yeah, whatever. He's an asshole, but I think he likes me.”

“What did you do?” Ford asks, curious and exasperated with Stanley’s caginess. 

“...Mighta punched ‘im and tried to steal his watch.”

“And you want his help? Stanley, he could be the man that tried to kill you!” 

“Nah, nah, he's straight. He gets it.”

“Stanley!” Ford's voice strains against his incredulity. Stanley shrugs carelessly before he scowls and the car shudders to a sudden stop at a red light.

“Fucking traffic! Baby wasn’t meant for this,” Stanley laments. “She was meant for the open road, Sixer! This city life’ld cramp her style.” He pats the dashboard affectionately, leaving streaks in the thin layer of dust. “All these careless bastards. Don’t know a good thing when they see her!” 

“Stanley, the man you assaulted and attempted to rob?” Ford prompts, irritation warming his face and hands.

“What? No, no, ya got it wrong. Snakes came onto  _ me _ .”

“...What?” Ford asks tensely as a deep, cool dread prickles his chest.

“Yeah, he thought--so I went to this one bar where all the fags are, right? A real homo nest. Not for anything!” Stanley amends quickly. “I ain't queer, right?”

“You were just in a gay bar,” Ford offers skeptically. The car lurches as the light turns green and Stanley hits the gas.

“Lookin’ for marks! And there was this guy with a watch--a real, solid piece. Ma always said, ya can tell how much a man has in his wallet by what he wears and it wasn't no knock-off, Sixer! I seen a lot o’ those, helped make some, too, but this was the real thing,” Stanley looks in the rear view, catching Ford's eyes there before he glances away. “Anyway, I thought, I get this guy alone, take ‘is watch. He's a fag, so it should be easy, right? Sissies can't hit.” Ford makes a disapproving noise deep in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anyway, he gets...he gets handsy,” Stanley hesitates, then clears his throat and shakes his head. “I punch ‘im. A real Pines left hook!” 

Ford is unable to respond, choking on cold fury and aborted dread. (He can’t stop his mind from conjuring the scene in pristine, speculative technicolor. He can see Stanley, nervous but brash and subtle as a brick as he cases the room. It’s charming, it’s always been charming to Ford, and it must have been charming to this Snake. He can imagine Stanley eyeing up his mark; Ford can imagine what that kind of look would do to a man. Ford’s own body feels warm at the thought.)

“...I didn't get the watch,” Stanley says, when Ford is quiet for too long. “He wasn't even that mad!”

“Because he was planning to murder you!” Ford shouts, the cold rage and warm blood meeting in something that rumbles loudly out of his throat. A few pedestrians turn to stare at them. Stanley flinches back before he blows a dismissive noise in Ford’s direction and flips off the pedestrians. One of them returns the gesture.

“Oh, real big, man!” Stanley yells at the retreating pedestrians. “I told ya, he's not...Jimmy wouldn't do that.”

“You don't know that!”

“Sure, I do!” Stanley glares at Ford before swearing as another car swerves in front of them. 

“Stanley!” 

“Jesus, watch it asshole!” Stanley slams his palm into the steering wheel, causing the car horn to shriek. A chorus of horns reply. Stanley continues to mutter creative curses under his breath as he leans in Ford space and pops open the glove compartment. His disheveled hair tickles Ford's nose. (Ford, despite his frustration and irritation, can't help but relax when Stanley is close enough to smell.) He has to jerk back when Stanley makes a triumphant sound and straightens. “Here!” He shoves a crumpled, stained napkin into Ford's hands. Ford frowns in slight disgust before he notices a code in bleeding ink is written on one side. Ford's curiosity is immediately peaked before he recognizes the code as an address. “Said if I change my mind, I could look ‘im up here.”

“Change your mind about what?” Ford pulls out his paper map and starts the process of deciphering tiny street names.

“Nothin'! N-nothing, just. He's got my ass--back! He's got my back. Not my ass.”

“Of course.” Ford squints up from the map and watches a flush creep up Stanley’s face at an alarming pace. Ford folds the map carefully in half so that he can put a hand on Stanley's knee. The young man jerks again; the car lurches. “Stanley, you can trust me. If you're afraid of this man--”

“What? No!” Stanley sputters and his knee twitches up and down until Ford squeezes the dimple where quadriceps meet patella. Stan’s leg twitches once before kicking out awkwardly in the cramped space. “Get off, I can’t drive with ya gropin’ me!” Ford hums disapprovingly in his throat. “Snakes is cool, okay? So, just,” Stanley squares his jaw and glares ahead at the snaking line of cars in front of them. “Be cool. He’ll help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this only happened because my dumbass got pissed at google earth for not finding me the golden gate bridge (i was looking at the wrong end of the country)


	4. Meeting the Local Wildlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fords doesn't play nice with the other kids.

Ford has run into a few bikers and motorcycle gangs in his travels. He isn't fond of them; they are loud and have a tendency towards brutishness that spans across dimensions. This one is no different, though Ford is marginally impressed that Stanley managed to assault someone belonging to an established gang without immediate retribution. (Though, it is possible that the very man Stanley is taking him to see is the man responsible for Stanford's condition, as Ford reminds Stanley before the young man dismisses him, again. If that is the case, Ford is prepared to end this, with or without Stanley’s consent.) 

On the napkin Stanley had crumpled into the glove compartment, is an address that takes the two of them deeper into the city, where the houses get closer until residences have fused into squat tenements and litter clutters the sidewalk and streets. One particular tenement is surrounded by motorcycles, crouched silently like sleeping guard dogs, as a few men lounge against the building's facade, smoking and drinking in the murky daylight. 

“I assume that's the place,” Ford says. Stanley nods, fingers tapping nervously as he looks for a place to park. 

“Fuckin’ city traffic,” he curses. Ford looks at his map and taps a space a block over. 

“We should park here,” he tilts the map so that Stanley can see it. “It'll be easier to drive away from here if this man is less helpful than we hope.”

“He's straight,” Stanley says. “Can't always judge a guy by his looks, right?”

“The man we hope to leverage in finding the men who tried to kill your brother,” Ford responds blandly. 

“Don't say it like that,” Stanley frowns at him. “Like we’re usin’ ‘im or somethin'.”

“Do you want to avenge your brother or not?” Ford indicates for Stanley to turn right. “Here, near the park.”

“They're gonna tow my baby,” Stanley complains, squinting suspiciously at the empty space he can squeeze his car.

“And every other vehicle.”

“I'll get a ticket.”

“I'll pay for it,” Ford snaps. “Stop stalling. The longer you drag your feet, the less likely we are to achieve our goal.”

“I'm not!” Stanley steers sharply into the space, making Ford lurch to grab something. “Whatever! Let's go.” 

“Oh, if you insist,” Ford says, once he peels his fingers from where they grasped for purchase. Stanley grumbles, jerking his fingers through his hair to calm the dirty strands and his nerves. Ford reaches into his jacket and pulls out the knuckles he made for Stanley. They’re still a bit new and untested, but if this encounter ends as Ford expects, he assumes that Stanley will get at least some experience with them. As Stanley looks dumbly at the knuckles that have fallen into his lap, Ford takes the moment to check his weapon. He hasn't had a need to fire it recently, but a cursory check and adjustment ensure that it's ready.

“What's, uh. What's that for?” Stanley shifts away and into the car door opposite Ford, nervous hand clutching the knuckles in his lap. “Ya ain't gonna shoot the guy, right?”

“I don't plan to,” Ford assures him before he exits the vehicle. “But, I really don't have a say in the matter.”

“Ya don't...hey!” Stanley scurries after Ford, slamming the car door as Ford takes a look at his map and then the streets around them. “What ya mean?”

“Come along,” Ford folds the map away and begins to walk briskly, Stanley jogs awkwardly to catch up. His face grows quickly red and sweaty.

“We can't shoot ‘im!” Stanley says. Off Ford's look, he glances around at the few people that regard them suspiciously. Someone rolls their eyes. 

“I don't _plan_ to resort to violence,” Ford assures the young man as they round a corner and the resting motorcycles come into sight. “I just want you to feel safe.”

“With a gun?”

“Yes,” Ford answers frankly. By now, the men smoking in front of the building have turned to watch them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen!” 

“What are ya doin’!?” Stanley grabs Ford's jacket, but Ford shakes him off.

“Do you know a Jimmy Snakes?” Ford stands, back straight and chin tilted up, drawing to his full height. One of the men begins to choke. When Ford regards him suspiciously, he sees that the man is, in fact, a woman. 

“Who that fuck is askin'?” The other man demands. He stands loosely, almost arrogantly, though he's lanky and dwarfed in his brown, biking jacket. (Ford is sure he could snap the man like a twig over his knee.) 

Ford pauses, unsure what alias, if any, he should give.

“S-stan,” Stanley starts behind Ford, but then moves cautiously in front of him. “Uh, Pines.” 

“Bit weedy,” the woman growls, voice rough with strain or cigarettes or both. “Don't remember Blondie talkin’ about takin’ on a weed,” she continues. “Or his daddy.” She pins Ford with a look, her beady, brown eyes boring into him. 

“I'm not his father,” Ford corrects. 

“Didn't say you were,” the woman shrugs, the leather of her black jacket creaks as it's stretched by her broad shoulders. 

“I need t’ ask ‘im somethin’,” Stanley offers. “It's important.” The woman swings her wide head to regard Stanley, squints at him and sniffing loudly at what she sees there. It makes Ford's muscles tense.

“Go home,” she says finally. 

“Yeah, beat it,” the lanky man grins beside her, crooked, stained teeth bared. “Or you're gonna end up with you're pretty, little car all over the avenue.”

“Shut up,” the woman shoves the man hard enough to make him stumble. He snarls, one hand clawing against the building's rough facade before glaring at the woman. 

“You, too,” he growls. “You won't be so big if youse in pieces.”

“You trying to start something, Coyote?” The woman turns her back on Ford and Stanley. From here, Ford can see the stars of the Big Dipper stitched into her jacket over the form of a roaring bear's head. (The constellation makes him viciously homesick.)

“Take you're pissin’ contest somewhere else,” another voice calls, making both the man and the woman freeze. “Don't need a reason for the pigs to come snufflin’ ‘round.” Ford doesn't pay the voice much mind until Stanley tenses up beside him, too. “Hey, there, kid.” Stanley squawks when Ford shoves the boy behind him. “And...you. You're not supposed to be here,” the man says slowly, eyeing Ford with mild interest. He's a tall, broad man, wearing his black, leather jacket with the ease of long familiarity. His hair is long and wild where it falls from under the red bandana that man wears around his head. His mouth and eyes are obscured, the first by an impressive mustache and the later by dark, reflective sunglasses. (Ford can’t see the man’s eyes; his hand twitches to squeeze something.) “Relax, man, I don't mean nothin’ by it,” The blond man says, leaning into the open doorway. “But, why don't you come inside? Or, I'm gonna have to start _charging the audience_ ,” he says loudly so that his voice carries and Ford looks around to see people ducking into doorways and cars driving away.

“Sixer, come on, I swear,” Stanley squeezes Ford's arm. “Jimmy’s straight. Swear it.”

“Fine,” Ford says finally. “I'm watching you,” he warns. The man grins, gleaming teeth peeking from under his mustache.

“‘Course,” he agrees. “Come on in,” he pulls back into the building, not bothering to hold open the door. Stanley pulls Ford in after the man. 

It's dark in the tenement, though that seems to be more so by design than neglect: sheets are tacked over the front window to obscure the light. The decreased visibility makes Ford's skin crawl, but Stanley seems to relax the deeper they get, following the man, Jimmy Snakes, down into a basement.

“Surprised, kid,” Snakes says when he leads them into a large, unfinished room with a few mismatched couches and a table. “Thought I told you to go home,” the man continues as he turns and lazily falls into one of the couches with a practiced sprawl. “Even more surprised to see you up, given that anyone who cares thinks you're dead.” 

“That--” Stanley's voice cracks and he clears his throat.

“Irrelevant,” Ford interrupts. Snakes slowly turns his head from Stanley to Ford.

“Yeah?” Snakes drawls. “And who the fuck're you?”

“A concerned party,” Ford says. 

“Uh huh,” the man picks up a cigarette from the table. He puts it to his lips and smoke curls from the glowing tip. 

“He's helpin’ me,” Stanley interjects. He takes a seat opposite Snakes. “The other guy, that was my brother. He almost died.” 

“And so you came back. For what? Revenge?” Snakes leans forward. “Ya wanna get even, Pinetree?” 

“Don't!” Ford snaps, hand twitching over his gun. (He can’t see the man’s eyes; he can’t trust him.) “Call him that.” Snakes’ head snaps, angled to stare at Ford’s holstered gun.

“...You know, kid, you struck me as pretty uptight, honestly. Kinda square.”

“Hey,” Stanley mutters, barely offended as his gaze drags between Ford and Snakes. To Ford he says: “Sixer, come on. Cool it.”

“But, then you come rolling up with this guy,” Snakes continues, head turning toward Ford. “I gotta ask, kid. Where'd you find this piece o’ work?”

“Uh,” Stanley starts.

“Irrelevant,” Ford repeats, hand resting on the gun openly. 

“Wasn’t talkin’ to you, six-fingers,” Snakes says. Ford bares his teeth, openly hostile.

“Hey, don’t,” Stanley says weakly. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“Y’know, kid,” Snakes taps his head thoughtfully. “There was this dumbass rumor goin’ ‘round that you had six fingers. Well, the _body_ they pulled outta the dump had six fingers.” Snakes grins, his teeth unnervingly bright against the red cherry of the cigarette. “Told ‘em, I got real personal with those hands, ain’t no way y’had some freaky extra finger.” Stanley’s face flushes brightly, his shoulders crawl up to his ears.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Yer bein’ a jerk.”

“Now here’s a brainiac,” Snakes chuckles. “So, come on, Sixer,” Snakes says. (The man still has the glasses on; Ford can’t see his eyes.) “What’re y’doin’ with this pine tree?” 

“ _Bill_!” Ford’s moving with the same automatic-elastic feeling that’s saved his life more time then he cares to count. He pulls out his gun and aims to fire, heart pounding but hand steady, until Stanley shouts at him, grabs his arm and pulls Ford’s shot wide. The wall behind the man erupts with blue light and the air chokes with dust and shards of concrete shrapnel. 

“Ford, stop! Stop, he’s not--”

“Well, now!” The basement lights up blue, blue fire burns in the center, but not from Ford’s shot. Ford gets a look at the man, grinning and covered in blue flames that run up from the palms of his clawed hands. 

“What the fuck?” Stanley shouts. His grasp on Ford’s arm shifts from restraining to unsure. Ford shrugs Stanley off before he is blasted backward as blue fire hits him like a bat to the sternum. He’s forced, breathless, to the ground as the air burns hot enough above him to singe his hair. (He knows it’s burning; he knows that smell.)

“He’s a demon!” Ford tries to yell. He’s lost his glasses, but he can’t see anyway. The heat from the fire sears Ford’s throat and lungs and nose and eyes. 

“And what are _you_ ?” Snakes says. “ _Easy_ , kid, I’m doin’ you a favor.”

“L-let ‘im go!” Stanley shouts. Ford can’t see him; he can barely hear him over the roar of the fire.

“No dice, kid! This guy doesn’t belong here.” It’s harder for Ford to breathe; the air is just too _hot._ “Jesus, kid, you can't be this stupid!”

“I said knock it off!”

Ford hears someone grunt out a pained curse, and then, the fire is gone and Ford gasps in air that burns from being too cold. He rolls and rubs at his watering eyes, squinting for any trace of his gun. He thinks he finds it, wraps his hands around something familiar.

“Stanley!” He tries to shout, but his voices scrapes out quietly. “Bill--” he tries to shout again, willing to make his throat bleed if he has to, but then he’s in the air, an arm around his neck tightening. His finger squeezes on the trigger and he shoots the ground, making the body behind him jerk with a low, growling curse by his ear.

“Lights out, old man,” the voice rumbles. Ford struggles, tries to kick out the legs behind him, fires his gun again, but he’s lifted by his neck and between the fire and now this, Ford’s brain begins to slow and the world fades. Soot starts to settle at the edge of his vision and smear inward until the entire basement is dimming, dimming, and then Ford drops his gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone wants to know the other bikers are Don Coyote and Callisto


	5. Friendly Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ford has some nice conversations with both Jimmy Snakes and Stanley.

“Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead.”

Ford is too familiar with waking up roughly to make any sudden noise or movement, though his heart is still pounding. (It’s easier to remain still when he aches from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet.) 

“Relax, kid, he’s fine.”

“Shut up.”

“Really, kid, where’d you find this guy?” 

Ford’s eyes snap open and he jerks to sit, smacking into something soft-but-solid that goes:

“Oof!”

“Bill!” Ford snarls, looking around to locate the man Bill was possessing. The man is a few feet away, no longer burning, but lounging on the couch. He has a red-and-black bruise on his face. Ford snarls and shoves the body on him away, barely registering that the body belongs to Stanley.

“Don’t do it, man,” the man drawls. “Kid only just convinced me not to fry the both of you like bacon, don’t ruin ‘is hard work.”

“I don’t know how you got out,” Ford rasps. His hand goes to his waist, but his gun isn’t there.

“Really, man, you gotta chill out,” Snakes drawls. He pulls out what Ford recognizes as his gun and looks it over, turning it over in his hands.

“I didn’t kill you last time,” Ford says. “But, this time, I’m going to tear you apart. Brick by brick.”

“Oof,” Snakes says. “Kid, y’hearin’ this?”

“He’s just,” Stanley’s voice sounds close enough to make Ford jump, but he refuses to take his eyes away from the man. “Got some shit from the war.”

“‘The war’,” Snakes mocks. “That want ‘e tell you? Nah, kid, guy like this.” Snakes stands. Ford struggles to meet him, scrambling inelegantly to sway on his feet. “Seriously, y’ain’t supposed to  _ be here _ .”

“I’m going to kill you, Cypher,” Ford hisses. The man chuckles.

“Cypher? I’m flattered, but,” the man finally removes his sunglasses and looks at Ford with clear, grey eyes. “I ain’t got half the clout.”

“Liar,” Ford snaps. “I’m not stupid, Bill. I was naive once, but never stupid. I won’t let you deceive me. And, I won’t let you hurt Stanley again!”

“Sixer, it’s--ya gotta calm down,” Stanley grabs Ford’s jacket and tugs gently. “He ain't Bill. He's Jimmy.” Ford refuses to look away from the man; the man watches Ford. 

“Y’ain’t answered my question,” Snakes says. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“He’s helpin’ me,” Stanley volunteers. Finally, Ford looks away from the man to glare at Stanley. He looks red and frightened; he’s wearing the knuckles Ford made him. “With my brother.”

“Nah, not that.” Snakes brandishes Ford’s weapon. “This? This ain’t from around here. And it ain’t from no ‘war’.” Snake considers Ford shrewdly. His eyes aren’t yellow, but they seem slit as they try to pull Ford apart. “You some kind o’ pod person? Huh, an alien or shit?”

“He’s from the future!” Stanley says. 

“Stanley!” Ford snaps at him, disbelieving and outraged. Snakes laughs.

“Future! What, like, space-age bullshit? That what this is?” Snakes waggles the gun. “Some space-age bullshit?” Snakes laughs again. “Jesus, kid, you’re a barrel of monkeys in a boring ol’ pickle jar, huh? Running around with some future man and actin’ all scared o’ _ me _ ? Damn.” Snakes shakes his head. “Look, killer, I ain’t your Cypher; don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘im either. If I give you back your freaky space-gun, y’gonna shoot me?”

“Probably,” Ford answers bluntly.

“Sixer!” Stanley hisses, but Snakes laughs louder. 

“Jesus, kid, a real character.” Snakes holds out Ford’s gun, which he snatches and immediately points back at the man. “Jesus.” Snakes repeats and shakes his head again. “Whatever, not my business if y’wanna fuck with time an’ shit. You’re lookin’ for whoever tried to kill you, right, kid?” And Snakes turns his back on Ford like he doesn’t think Ford is a threat. (Ford wants to squeeze the trigger.)

“They hurt my brother,” Stanley shoves past Ford to follow the man, like Ford isn’t still  _ holding a gun _ .

“Yeah, yeah, vengeance,” Snakes falls back into his seat and puts an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He sucks in a breath and the tip glows red. “Tell me what you got in mind kid, and maybe I’ll help you and your brother.” 

“You--really?” Stanley asks and carefully sits across from Snakes. Snakes grins. 

“Hell yeah, kid,” he says. Ford slowly lowers his gun.

“We’re going to tear them apart,” he says, making both Stanley and Snakes look at him.

“Yeah?” Snakes asks.

“Y-yeah,” Stanley agrees.

“You're really gonna, what, wipe out an entire gang for roughin’ up one o’ yours?” Snakes has burned his cigarette to its end. He produces another one to replace it.

“If they get on my way,” Ford glares at the cigarette. He sets a hand on Stanley's shoulder; Stanley jumps and Ford can feel how clammy his neck is. 

“We really,” Stanley clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Losin’ your nerve?” Snakes smirks. “You don't really strike me as a killer, kid.”

“No!” Stanley shoves Ford's hand away, to Ford's displeasure. “No! They fucked with my brother. That's--they gotta pay.”

“Alright, alright,” Snakes rolls to stand, fluid and effortless. “I’ll give you some names, but that’s it. None o’ my business.” Stanley follows him to stand, bright and eager. Snakes pulls out a napkin and scrawls a few names, balling it up and tossing it to Stanley. “Now, get out. This ain't a halfway house or a charity.” 

“We owe you nothing,” Ford snaps. Stanley pulls open the napkin and frowns. “No deal, no payback.”

“Sure, brother,” Snakes shrugs. “Now get out. But, hey, kid!” Ford grabs Stanley’s arm to forcibly pull him along, but Stanley digs in his heels stubbornly to turn and look back at Snakes. “Offer still stands, kitten. When this guy’s done with you.” Stanley’s face turns bright red and Ford considers shooting Snakes on principle, but Stanley’s dragging  _ him _ along as the demon laughs behind.

 

Snakes is unhelpful, in Ford's opinion. His napkin is hard to read, the names make no sense to Ford. 

“That was pointless,” Ford says, eyeing the rear view mirror.

“I can't fuckin’ believe ya,” Stanley snaps. “Maybe, guy woulda been more helpful if ya hadn't tried to kill ‘im!” 

“If I wanted him dead, Stanley, he'd be dead.” Ford fights the heat that creeps into his cheeks; he’s sure it’s residual, anyway. “Honestly, though, only you would find the one nest of demons in the city.”

“Not my fault,” Stanley grouses. 

“So you’ve said,” Ford drawls. 

“I'm not taking the blame just ‘cause some guy I know is a walking, blue matchstick!” Stanley jerks the car around a turn, but slams on the brakes when a group of pedestrians crossing the street refuse to speed out of his way. 

“A demon, Stanley. The man is a demon.”

“Whatever! Jesus, move people!” Stanley slams the car horn that does little to urge the pedestrians on. Ford slaps Stanley’s hand when the noise makes Ford’s teeth hurt. “Don't touch me, ya God damn fuckin’ creep!” Stanley snarls at Ford and slams the gas, the tires squeal and the car jumps. Finally, people scurry away, shouting as Stanley speeds forward and around another corner. “This is yer fault!” Stanley shouts, hunching over the car steering wheel and dodging wildly through traffic. 

“ _ My _ fault?” Ford hisses. “And what is my fault, Stanley?”

“This! All o’ this! It was good before ya! Life was good! I was good,  _ Ford _ was--” Stanley cracks, his rough voice gets shrill. 

“You can't blame me for this, Stanley,” Ford says. 

“He said ya don't belong here! Yer just some outta time outsider!” Stanley slams on the brakes at a stop light, swearing. “Who knows what woulda happened without ya here? We coulda been good!” 

“You would be comatose!” Ford shouts furiously, Stanley's sharp words cutting through his already frayed nerves. “You would be little more than a dribbling, catatonic idiot with more arthritis than sense and your brother would be cleaning up after you like an old dog!” Stanley stares at him, stunned into silence, and Ford realizes he should stop, but his mouth keeps moving. “Your brother was going to  _ leave _ you, Stanley. He was going to wring out every drop of usefulness and loyalty in that foolish head of yours and then  _ destroy _ you.”

“He coulda!” Stanley finally shouts back. “All of it! I woulda let ‘im!” 

“It would have been wasted on a brother that doesn't love you!” Ford snaps back bitterly.

“Well, the old guy got ya, right?” Stanley challenges and Ford's teeth click loudly when they snap shut to grind together. “He got ya? Ford woulda had me. He woulda, I know it.”

“You're a fool,” Ford says. “A lovesick fool.”

“Stupid Stanley Pines,” Stanley glares sullenly out the windshield. “That's me.” 

“Stanley--”

“Ya really...ya really hate the old guy that much?” Stanley asks. 

“He's...a burden,” Ford admits. “But, I can't hate him.”

“Do ya think...does Ford feel like that? About me?”

“If he did, he doesn't anymore.” 

Stan makes a sound, bitter and caustic. 

“Yeah, he's--whatever. We're gonna fix it,” Stanley grips the steering wheel, stretching the skin over his knuckles until it’s white. Ford nods. 

“Have you ever been hunting, Stanley?” Ford asks. Stanley snorts at him, giving Ford an incredulous look.

“What, like deer? Yer Pops ever take ya huntin’?” 

“No,” Ford admits.

“Only thing I ever hunted was the Jersey Devil and the damn thing got away.”

“Really?” Ford regards the young Stanley curiously. “You actually caught it?”

“Pfft! Yeah, thing was a real nightmare piece o’ work.” Stanley's scowl starts to crack into a reluctant smile. “Definitely gave Sixer nightmares. Not me!” Stanley adds quickly. “I never lost sleep over that ugly thing's melting mug or nothin’. But, Ford,” Stanley's face eases with the memory, lulled by a time long gone. “Wish it were always that simple, ya know?”

“...Yes.” 

“Yeah.”

The drive in silence for a while before Stanley puffs out a large, dramatic breath.

“Alright, gotta be honest with ya,” he says. “I got no idea where we are.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Where the fuck are we!?” Stanley gestures around at the streets and the buildings. “I swear, we passed that damn candy shop three times!”

“No, that's a new one,” Ford squints at the shop in question. “It's remarkably like the others, though.”

“Snakes said they work outta a candy shop, but damn,” Stanley runs his fingers through his hair and away from his face. “Like a needle in a haystack.”

“Well, theoretically,” Ford watches the strands of hair tangle around Stanley’s hand. “We drive through their territory and they'll find us.”

“Tauntin’ them? That what we doin’ here?”

“Well, unless you had something else in mind,” Ford crosses his arms. “Whoever started the job will most likely want to finish it.”

“They can try,” Stanley mutters, hunching forward and glaring suspiciously at a young couple sharing a bag of candy. Ford chuckles.

“Yes,” he agrees. “They can try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in another world jimmy went down to jersey, lookin for a soul to steal


	6. Nothing Brings Men Together Like a Little Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford tries to teach Stanley an important skill.

They start with a man that is hardly a man at all. He’s about Stanley’s age, but slimmer and softer, with the kind of peach fuzz that only accents his unlined face. (Ford cannot call something so cruel as this thing writhing in his arms a "boy", whatever the passage of time might deem him. He can hardly call the spindly thing a "man" either, but Ford is comfortable killing men, and so a man the creature is.)

“Sh,” Ford shushes the man, almost a body. Ford pulls his wrist closer to his ear and leans back to counter the body’s weight. The man kicks and gurgles, convulsing and then twitching when Stanley lands another blow to the man’s stomach. When the blow lands, the air cracks with sparking electricity, bathing Stanley in a cold, furious blue light. (It warms Ford to the tips of evey one of his twelve fingers to see Stanley using the knuckles Ford made him.)

“My brother!” Stanley is shouting; he’s almost hysterical. “He ain’t--” Stanley stops to catch his breath in deep, nauseating gasps and swallows.

“Breathe,” Ford reminds him. “Don’t swallow your breaths.”

“Shut up!” Stanley roars and punches the man hard enough that even Ford has to puff out a surprised exhale. The air cracks again and Ford can snell burning cloth and singed skin. The man groans and twitches. Hos hands spasm against Ford’s stomach, where they are bound safely out of the way. “This is all yer fault!” Stanley screams. It’s shrill and hurts Ford’s ears, but not as much as Stanley’s next punch seems to hurt the man. He screams around the makeshift gag, a scrap of cloth and many winding wraps of tape. Ford pulls up abruptly, cutting off the man’s air to silence him. The man’s head snaps back and knocks Ford’s glasses into his head.

“As much as I appreciate your patience,” Ford begins as the man starts to wriggle weakly. 

“Shut--” Stanley chokes and starts to coughs and doubles over, supporting himself on his knees as he gags. 

“My arms are getting tired. Either let me tie this man to something, or finish him.”

“Shut up, ya fuckin’--” Stanley glares up at Ford, catches sight of the man in Ford’s grasp, and then shudders.

“Jus’...just let ‘im go.” Stanley waves a hand and keeps panting, almost drooling. Ford wrinkles his nose and considers.

“No,” he says. He drops the man to the ground; he lands in an exhausted, agonized heap. 

“He’s--look,” Stanley starts, then freezes when Ford takes out his gun to aim at the man. “No, no, come on.”

“It’s okay, Stanley,” Ford says. He kicks the man over and smiles down at him. (It’s a chore; the man is swollen and hideous with bruises and burns and fluids.) The man makes a pitiful noise; he seems to leak around the face. “Stanley, come here.” Stanley doesn’t move and Ford’s face is starting to hurt from smiling. “Stanley!” Stanley scrambles to his side, face scrunching. “Thank you.” Ford remembers that Stanley likes to be thanked (he remembers his Stan begging for gratefulness).  
Stanley doesn’t say anything, barely moves. He stares at the pulpy mess of a human he has made and Ford lets him drink in his achievement. 

“Let ‘im go, Ford,” Stanley says again, softer and more private. Ford sighs and puts a hand on Stanley’s shoulders, which still heave with muted gasps. The man whines again; he wriggles.

“I can’t, Stanley,” Ford explains, gently. Stanley looks at him sharply. “He knows our names. He’d--you saw what he did to your brother.” The man on the ground begins to shake his head frantically, moaning. “These kinds of people--”

“I can’t,” Stanley starts, stops. Clears his throat. “I don’t want to,” Stanley admits like it hurts him. Like it disappoints Ford. (It does.)

“Ah,” Ford nods. He leans into Stanley’s space and brushes a brief, barely-there-kiss to his temple. “I understand.” Ford wraps an arm around Stanley, hugging him. Stanley leans into him, for the first time in a long time. Ford relishes it.

“I wanna go home,” Stanley whispers and Ford nods.

“I remember,” Ford starts and then chuckles. “First times are hard.” Ford pulls the trigger, barely looking at the man. 

The noise he makes is disgusting, in its pitifulness. The kind of noise that makes Ford fight the urge to finish the kill cleanly. Stanley jumps, shouts. He writhes in Ford’s grasp and shoves himself away, stumbling wildly to stare from the man to Ford to the man.

“What the fuck!?” He shouts. “What the fuck!?”

“He’s dying,” Ford says calmly. He looks at the man, at the black, burning hole in his gut. “I doubt the medicine of this age can save him. We’re too far away from any hospital and, honestly,” Ford nudges the man’s feet for emphasis. The man doesn’t respond. (It’s disappointing.) “It’d be a waste.” 

“Ford…” Stanley chokes out. 

“Exactly! Imagine, this slime,” Ford kicks the man harder. He twitches like a dumb nerve. “Taking resources from someone like your brother! Nurses and doctors, rushing away from good, honest men.” Ford kicks the man again, harder. The man groans, leaks harder from the face, and starts to thrash weakly. “For this! This monstrous!” Ford kicks. “Disgusting!” Ford kicks. “Manipulative!” The man has maneuvered himself so that the next kick lands in his already fractures ribs. The man screams again. Ford thinks about stepping on his neck. 

“...Ford…” Stanley’s voice is small, afraid. Ford looks at him, takes in the muggy darkness of the world around them and how small and pure Stanley looks. (At how small Stanley has made himself.)

“It’s okay, Stanley,” Ford says again. (He means it.) “I’ll take care of you.” He lets his arm hang limply at his side, trigger finger lightly stroking his thumb. “But, the next one is yours, okay?” Stanley’s face shifts into a kind of confusion that makes Ford ache, makes Ford want to drop his gun and grab Stanley’s soft, young face and kiss it. (He wants that face to taste as sweet as it looks; to be as refreshing.) Instead, Ford smiles softly, sadly, and then kicks the man once, twice, thrice in the head. His feet kick out; his eyes roll. The cloth gag in the man’s mouth is stained pink. Stanley whimpers and looks away. The man’s feet twitch again.

“Can we go?” Stanley asks. “Please, can we go?”

“Of course,” Ford says. The man groans weakly. (More of a death rattle.) Stanley shudders and Ford feels something like pity. “Here.” Ford shrugs out of his large trench coat and wraps it around Stanley. The young man is still staring at the body on the floor, but his thick, soft fingers wrap around the coat’s edges and pull it close, like an instinct. “You did well,” Ford lies. He pulls Stanley close and guides him away. Stanley follows with minimal reluctance, stumbling only once or twice before Ford opens the backseat of the Stanleymobile and gently pushes him inside. (He’s shaking.) "I'll take care of you." He pushes Stanley back, back until the young man has wiggled and slid his way to lean on the opposite door. Ford follows him, pressing gently and insistently until he looms over this vacant-eyed Stanley with a wrinkle of worry in his brow. Ford reaches out to smooth away that premature wrinkle. "Stay here," he says, feeling his breath puff damply against Stanley's skin. Stanley nods, curls around himself, scraping mud from the soles of his dirty shoes onto the bright red bench of the car's back seat. Ford strokes the stray hair from his face, to smooth it back, but each dirty strand slides out again. "I'll be back.” 

The man is motionless when Ford returns. Ford scowls, irritated with the mess. He could dump the body in a river, of course, but that would require moving it. He could leave it, this place is remote enough. They would have a day or two to keep hunting. 

Ford sighs, deciding on a course of action. He removes anything distinctive and inflammable from the body: wallet, gold chain, ring, keys. He goes back out to the car to grab a spare gas can and liberally drenches the body in gasoline until the stench of it makes his eyes water. He feels detached when the flames start, strangely blue at first before they burn red and yellow. Ford watches. (He imagines Bill like this, as the man begins to flake and burn. He images Stan.)

He returns to the car smelling hideous enough that Stanley looks up from the back seat to stare at him. (Stanley is more distressed than Ford anticipated if he doesn't object to Ford sliding into the driver's seat.)

"Here," Ford pulls the gold chain out of his pocket. It's a nice weight and still warm. He holds it out to Stanley, who blinks at it.

"Where?" Stanley starts to ask.

"A reward," Ford let's the chain sway and catch the light. "It's not particularly valuable, but the gold plating matches your complexion nicely." Stanley doesn't stop frowning, but he slowly wraps his shaking fingers around the chain. For a moment they are anchored together by the thin, gold chain. It feels significant enough that when Ford let's go his hands feel damp and cold. "I think you deserve a drink," Ford rasps, voice suddenly dry and throat sore. (He must have inhaled some of the smoke.) The engine turns over noisily and continues to growl as Ford drives them back to the motel and away from the thin, black smoke that disappears into the inky sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im glad they're getting along :)


End file.
